“In the kitchen, to be sure,” said Nurse; “and the cellar, and coal-hole, and such like. Alonger the rats and mice—and the beadles,” she added, as an after-thought.
“The beadles!” repeated Ruth doubtfully. “What beadles?”
“Why, the black beadles, to be sure,” replied Nurse cheerfully.
Ruth was silent. It seemed dismal company for the kitchen cat. Then she said:
“Are there many of them?”
“Swarms!” said Nurse, breaking off her thread with a snap. “The kitchen’s black with ’em at night.”
What a dreadful picture!
“Who feeds the cat?” asked Ruth again.
“Oh, I don’t suppose nobody feeds it,” answered Nurse. “It lives on what it ketches every now and then.”
No wonder it looked thin! Poor kitchen cat! How very miserable and lonely it must be with no one to take care of it, and how dreadful for it to have such nasty things to eat! And the supply even of these must be short sometimes, Ruth went on to consider. What did it do when it could find no more mice or rats? Of the beetles she could not bear even to think. As she turned these things seriously over in her mind she began to wish she could do something to alter them, to make the cat’s life more comfortable and pleasant. If she could have it to live with her in the nursery for instance, she could give it some of her own bread and milk, and part of her own dinner; then it would get fatter and perhaps prettier too. She would tie a ribbon round its neck, and it should sleep in a basket lined with red flannel, and never be scolded or chased about or hungry any more. All these pictures were suddenly destroyed by Nurse’s voice: